


Punch Drunk

by stormae



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underground Boxing, F/M, Fluff, Hardly any angst, M/M, Mild Language, lots and lots of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormae/pseuds/stormae
Summary: “At least I got something good from that god-forsaken ring.”





	Punch Drunk

Things were painfully slow for you these days.

You collapsed onto the couch of your friend’s little apartment. It was cluttered, to say the least. The bookshelves were filled with yellowed novels and magazines with torn pages and knick knacks he’d got from relatives when they came back from holidays that he didn’t want but had to accept.

The furniture was all second hand, which meant it was free but wouldn’t last more than a couple of months at most, and the kitchen shared its space with the dining room, the bedroom sharing with the living room.

It was cosy, though, and you spent more time there than you did at home. Sicheng had moved out of home as soon as he could, using the money from his part time job to rent one of the only places he could afford. You commended him for it, though. It was a far braver move than you could ever manage.

He had always been more mature than you, earning pocket money and babysitting and getting a job before you. You didn’t resent him for it in the slightest, in fact you found that it spurred you to seek out things for yourself.

You’d spent most of your childhood with Sicheng. The first ten years were composed of you trying to keep him from hurting himself, the second ten years mostly containing you watching him grow and flourish. It panicked you slightly at first—that he would leave you in his wake—but he never forgot about you for a moment, dragging you along with him through your teenage years and into reluctant early adulthood.

And here you were, curling yourself up on a drizzly Sunday, burrowing yourself into the disproportionately stuffed cushions of Sicheng’s couch of questionable origin, a huff of air escaping your lips and filling the empty silence of the room.

On the other couch, Sicheng was curled into Taeyong’s side, head resting against the older boy’s shoulder, eyes unfocused as the rain smashed against the tiles of the roof with cacophonous persistence. They had been seeing each other for a while now, and despite your early reservations at Sicheng seeing an older man when the pair of your were basically fresh out of high school, you got along well with Taeyong. He was enigmatic, sure, but he was kind and held insurmountable affection in his gaze whenever he looked at Sicheng.

“You guys are going out tonight, yeah?” You asked them. Both nodded in your direction.

You scowled and sunk further into the couch. “My weekend has been boring as bat shit, as per usual. Perhaps I’ll watch paint dry, or read the dictionary tonight whilst the pair of you go off galavanting.”

Taeyong and Sicheng blinked blankly at you.

“You can come with us, if you want,” Taeyong suggested.

You shot them an unmoved look. “What?” You probed, “And third-wheel you?” You hadn’t actually wanted them to change anything for you, you just wanted to vent your frustrations. “Why would you or I want that?”

“It’s not a date, Y/N,” Sicheng explained, twitching his head to flick wisps of dark hair from his eyes as he sat up from Taeyong’s hold, “we don’t go out clubbing every Sunday night.”

This was news to you. “Then what do you do?”

“It’s for my work,” Taeyong filled in.

“Your work?”

“Mhm.”

“What do you do?” You hadn’t ever heard him talk about a job before, although you assumed he had some way of making enough money to get by, day to day.

“I’m a… promoter,” he said. You’d heard of those, they went around promoting bands or venues. You thought that it didn’t really fit his personality—he wasn’t really the flashy, pushy type—but you let it wash over you.

“You’r serious? I can come?”

“Sure,” Taeyong shrugged his shoulders.You managed to miss the hint of I know something you don’t in his eyes.

“Speaking of work,” he said, shifting away from Sicheng and standing from his burrow in the couch, “I should get ready.”

You sprang to your feet, Sicheng rising in a far more leisurely manner, and turned to Taeyong. You were possibly presenting yourself as a little over eager, but the prospect of going out and doing something other than school or work was almost a foreign concept to you lately, and Taeyong’s offer, even though you weren’t quite sure what it entailed, was more than welcome.

—

The electric neon signs of the densely packed street shone above your head, illuminating your way with bright red and green and blue. The people were intimidating and the shops were grimy and you were uncomfortable. This was not an area of Seoul you frequented, what with the pedigree of people and the reputation of the establishments. You sidled closer to Sicheng, who chuckled and slung a reassuring arm around your shoulders.

You had taken your cues from him and Taeyong as far as clothing went. Black, tight jeans, an equally onyx leather jacket around your shoulders. Where they wore shiny boots, you had to resort to your battered grey converse, but Sicheng had assured you that they were fine for where you were going.

That was the thing, you still didn’t know where you were going.

Taeyong and Sicheng had lead you through the throngs of people until you came to a metal grid-gate in the w all. Taeyong punched in a code on the worn-out keypad and the door made promising clicking sounds, allowing Taeyong to swing the gate open and usher you and Sicheng into the dark stairwell. There was no sign telling you what this place was, no bouncer or trail of people. The only thing preventing your fear from swelling was the serene look on Sicheng’s face as the pair of you waited for Taeyong to seal the gate again.

You followed them down the concrete staircase, descending below street level until you came to a metal door. Taeyong pushed the handle and opened it with ease, stepping through into a corridor illuminated with fluorescent white lights.

As soon as you crossed the threshold you could feel the bass thumping in what you assumed was the club upstairs.

Not yet ready to ask your questions, you followed along in the uniform silence of Sicheng and Taeyong, down the corridor towards the sounds of lots of voices and perhaps a little music, but it was hard to tell over the thrumming upstairs.

Taeyong pushed open another door, this one looking a little worse for wear, and brought you to your final destination.

What lay before you was not what you had expected. Lots of people chatting with one another, clamouring to be heard over other voices and the music playing both within the expansive room and the external club music.

The room was dimly lit, two or three long cylindrical light bulbs trying and failing to scare the shadows from more than just the centre of the room. They shone over a huge square mat of a vivid red colour, worn away in the centre to reveal the original pallor of the stitching. Parts of the thin mat had been patched here and there, showing its age.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, and you couldn’t prevent yourself from jumping three feet in the air. Sicheng giggled at your state of nerves, patting your shoulder gently. You noticed Taeyong was nowhere to be found.

“You know what this is, right?” He questioned you. You blinked back at him silently. “This is an underground boxing club.”

“Boxing?” You echoed, trying to see if you believed him. It seemed to fit with the scene.

“Yeah,” Sicheng confirmed once and for all, “bare-knuckle boxing.”

“And Taeyong promotes for the club?” You tried to fit all the puzzle pieces you had in your possession into the bigger picture as quickly as you could manage.

“Not quite,” Sicheng explained, “he trains and promotes for a few of the boxers. They’re clients of his.”

You waited a moment for it to sink in and make sense, before continuing with your queries. “How did he get into all of this?”

“He used to be the light-weight champion,” Sicheng’s eyes roved over the assortment of people, falling on the mat in the middle, lit under an artificial halo. It almost looked like a depressing place for the final coming, with the way the people gathered in excitement, the enthralment buzzing in the air.

“He was injured,” Sicheng continued, “almost died, but he was lucky and scraped through. It was all he really knew, though, so now he trains and promotes younger, still capable boxers.”

An older man, perhaps reaching his early thirties, broke from the rim of the crowd, moving to the middle of the mat and clapping his hands together to gather attention.

The people hushed, leaving room for the MC’s booming voice to fill the large room.

“We have several fights lined up for you tonight,” he informed the excited people, “all made up of great young fighters. All bets must go to Youjin by the staircase before the first bell, although I’m sure you are all already familiar with the way things work here.”

He continued to talk, riling up the crowd until you found yourself being pushed from both sides as the people’s anticipation accumulated to a climax. You wiggled backwards until you stood apart from the crowd, happy to be at the back, away from the sweat and out of view of the mat.

You’d long since lost Sicheng and Taeyong by then, standing around by yourself, watching the different characters within the crowd as the bell rang, signalling the commencement of the first fight.

You could hear the thrilled remarks of the spectators, and every now and then the crowd would shift and you’d get a glimpse of the fight, which seemed to be extending on for quite a long time. You found yourself feeling more and more confused and lost.

“I would say do you come here often, but I think I already know the answer,”A deep voice sounded from beside you, catching you off guard. “Would you like to know what’s going on?”

You turned towards the owner of the voice, finding a tall boy with kind eyes, soft slope to the nose and a grey hoodie pulled up over his head. He pushed the dark cloth back, revealing a head of artificial blond hair and ears adorned with jewellery, gold hoops in both with an additional gold stud in the left lobe. From his neck, on a long, thin gold chain, hung a copper ring. The boy subconsciously rolled the ring in his fingers once or twice before tucking it back into the material of his sweatshirt. His eyes flickered from the swarms of people back to you, a soft smile on his pink lips.

“Yeah,” you found your voice in time to answer him, “sure. Why not.”

Mystery boy crossed his arms over his chest and edged slightly closer to you as more exultant cheers erupted from the gathered fans.

“It was the original form of boxing,” he began, voice smooth and low and easy to listen to, “it differs from regular boxing because, as the name suggests, the knuckles have to be open and bare. If you’re adhering to the rules, there’re no bandages or wrapping allowed. It differs from street fighting because of the rules.”

You nodded to show you were keeping up.

“All fighters can have these things called seconds, which are people that aid them and stand on the corners of the ring. Can only have two at a time, but can have three max, and one is the Chief Second.”

As the crowd diverged once more, you could make out a man standing at each corner of the mat, watching the grappling fighters with hawk-like precision. The ranks of the spectators closed again, and the boy next to you continued his explanation.

“There’s no hitting someone when they’re down. If someone’s knocked down, the standing person has to get to the farthest corner and wait for the ref to signal. If the person knocked down gets up, you start at the centre line again.”

That didn’t sound like an entirely foreign concept to you. You nodded to indicate he should continue.

“If you get a cut and the ref thinks it stops you from being able to see, they call time out and you have sixty-seconds to get your Cut Man to fix it up for you. If after the minute’s up the ref still thinks you’re no good, the fight ends and your opponent wins.”

“That seems unfair,” you piped up. The guy next to you smiled and shrugged, as if to convey thems the rules.

“Two refs,” he went on, “one in the ring, one out of the ring.”

You could see the two men in question, one standing on the mat, trying to stay out of the way of the fighters. The other was skirting the mat, watching for any discrepancies.

“There are three judges that score the fight out of ten. The winner gets a ten out of ten, the loser gets nine or less. They score by punches, but not just by the quantity, but by how effective each punch is. There’s an eight-count, not a three-count knockdown rule.”

“The movies are inaccurate,” you said, inserting fake bitterness into your voice to jokingly convey a sense of betrayal.

The boy chuckled, “They are indeed,” then continued once more, “there are meant to be two physicians ringside at all times, but I’m pretty sure there’s only ever one guy here, and that’s only sometimes. There are also meant to be medical examinations before each fight, and an ambulance on standby outside, but you can bet your right arm that neither of those things ever happen.” He seemed done.

You couldn’t help scrunching up your face in distaste. “Sounds unnecessary and dangerous,” you quipped.

Again, the boy beside you chuckled at your bluntness. “It is.”

Upon entering the establishment, you had quickly decided not to talk to or befriend any of the questionable characters making up the audience. However, the boy looked far too soft and kind to be into this sort of thing, which further stoked your curiosity.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, flashing him an accompanying smile.

“Jaehyun,” he responded.

“So,” you gestured lackadaisically at the commotion around you, “you’re a fan of bare-knuckle boxing?”

“God, no,” his pretty features scrunched in obvious revulsion, “I fucking hate it.”

You contemplated asking him why he was here, then, but you couldn’t find a way to word it that didn’t sound accusatory or judgmental, so you just nodded as if it made sense and continued to make conversation.

You found Jaehyun very easy to talk to, him taking a great and genuine interest in your studies. You took english literature as an elective, which gave way to an out of place discussion about his favourite authors and book recommendations amid the din of the fight.

“So, what’re you doing here?” He asked casually, and you pondered why you hadn’t been able to do the same. “You don’t seem the type to frequent this sort of place.”

He was not wrong. “Normally I’m either at school or at work or at Sicheng’s. I don’t exactly have the money to pay to go clubbing or anything else.”

“I get that,” he said, the words uttered in a tight tone that told you he really did.

The first two fights had ended and the penultimate one was well under way. You hadn’t been keeping track of the winners and losers, too caught up in your conversation with Jaehyun. His phone began to ring, an unmistakable and ironic Eye of the Tiger attempting to make itself heard in the noisy room. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously as he lifted his phone to his ear, muttered a few quick ‘yes’s before hanging up. You were about to ask why he had that as his ringtone if he was supposedly so against fighting, when he spoke first.

“I have to go,” he told you, dark eyes apologetic, “it was really nice talking to you, Y/N.”

You didn’t even have a chance to bid him your own goodbye before he disappeared through the crowd.

While you were still processing the rapid exit, Sicheng reappeared next to you.

“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless from causes unknown to you, “how you doing? Enjoying yourself?”

“Um—”

“There’s just one more fight that Taeyong has to be here for, then we can go,” he told you, the look on his delicate features telling you he knew this was not really your scene.

“C’mere,” he said, grabbing your hand and using his superior height to tug you through the people until you were next to Taeyong, who was as still as Michelangelo’s David, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watched the match.

You arrived just in time to watch the less bloody and puffy of the two challengers fling a right hook in the lefthand side of the opponent’s face, sending the guy tumbling to the mat, body unmoving.

The man who had thrown the punch quickly moved backwards until his was standing on the edge of the mat, jiggling up and down as he eyed the other person he had just knocked unconscious, an unsettling gleefulness igniting his eyes as he watched blood drip from the other’s nose onto the mat.

The referee in the ring was counting down in a loud voice from eight.

“Four, three, two, one!” As he reached the end, he proclaimed the man of beastly qualities the winner. The victor flung his bloodied fists in the air, a triumphant roar barreling from his chest and echoing throughout the room. You found yourself grimacing at the sight, his very presence in the joint made goosebumps emerge on your arms.

The unconscious man was pried from the mat and dragged off by his seconds. No medic in sight, as Jaehyun had foretold.

The second ref grabbed a towel, trying to rid the mat of the already drying blood as the first ref began to announce the next match.

“This should be quick,” Sicheng muttered next to you as the ref summoned the two fighters to the ring, making a huge deal about the one in the blue corner. That was Taeyong’s, Sicheng told you. A big earner.

The fighter pushed through the crowd on the other side and stepped onto the mat. The red corner housed a tanned, muscled guy by the name of Kim Jongin. His hair was pushed back by a headband and his eyes were mean and determined. He looked formidable.

Then the person on the other side of Taeyong discarded their jumper and stepped onto the mat. Pale skin rippled over a muscular back, a copper ring on a gold chain hanging down his spinal column, lying in the dip between his shoulder blades.

Your suspicions were confirmed.

Jaehyun turned to listen to a few of the things Taeyong was saying to him from where he had taken his place on one of the corners, before turning back to his opponent. Unlike the undiluted desire to win that was apparent in Jongin’s every move and engraved in his face, Jaehyun was a picture of calm stoicism. His face was devoid of emotion, far from the cheerful, smiley boy you’d conversed with minutes ago, but at least he hadn’t transformed into something bloodthirsty and animalistic.

The bell sounded and the two young men leapt into motion. They danced around each other in a circle for a moment, before Jongin darted forwards to make an offensive move.

Whereas Jongin was economic and precise in every movement, Jaehyun seemed sloppy in his defence, not properly protecting his stomach and giving the opportunity to Jongin to slam a fist straight into Jaehyun’s gut.

He absorbed the hit, stumbling back slightly and continuing to do little more than watch Jongin and attempt to move away from him.

Jongin landed two more hits, one to the shoulder and one to the head, and you figured that Sicheng had meant that Jaehyun was no good, and that Jongin would take him down easily. That seemed to correlate with the Jaehyun you had met, he really didn’t seem to have that hunger for blood that the other fighters had in common.

You paused mid-thought, though, as Jaehyun transformed before you eyes. He seemed to grow larger, tightening his stance until he made Jongin’s previous efficiency look complacent. Jaehyun became quicker, too, especially as he blurred towards Jongin.

Jongin had already been taken off guard by the sudden drastic change in demeanour, so he was not aware enough to block the next hits. One fist slammed into the tan man’s stomach with unrivalled force, the other coming up from underneath to collide with his chin in quick succession.

Jongin fell backwards onto the floor, a beast reduced to a starfish attempting to maintain consciousness.

The ref began the countdown once more, tallying eight seconds and ruling Jaehyun the winner in what couldn’t have been more than a five minute fight.

The ref grabbed Jaehyun by the wrist and hoisted his arm into the air. Unlike the previous man, Jaehyun seemed reluctant to revel in the cheers, his expression vacuous as he gazed at one spot on the ground. His bare chest, muscles well defined, heaved as he captured his breath. There was nothing celebratory about his countenance.

As soon as the ref let him go, Jaehyun escaped the mat, moving over to where Taeyong was receiving money in cash from a man wearing dark sunglasses in the already very dark room, a humongous gold wristwatch and a shiny belt-buckle to match. Taeyong took two note from the stack, before handing the rest to Jaehyun, who showed the first glimpse of emotion since he had entered the ring. It was unmistakable relief.

Taeyong handed the half-naked boy his jumper, which he slung over his torso, pulling the hood up over his head. He grasped Taeyong’s hand in a firm shake, flashing him a small but genuine smile.

His eyes flittered over Taeyong’s shoulder to where you were stood next to Sicheng, watching his every move with wide eyes. His smile widened as he shrugged in the same way he had earlier, a noncommittal action that told you he didn’t really have an explanation he wanted to give.

You tentatively lifted a hand, waving slightly. He mirrored your action, before giving Taeyong one last nod and heading towards the door you had come through earlier.

As Taeyong returned to where you were stood, Sicheng placed a hand on your shoulder, “Ready to go?”

You had to remind yourself to nod, entirely too caught up in the replay in your head of the boy who had just presented far more questions than he had answered.

—

A couple of weeks had passed since the night you had watched men pummel other men into the ground. ‘For free!’ Sicheng had reminded you. You regretted to inform him that that fact made it no better.

You had no intention of ever going back, you had told yourself so when you left the club that night. It had been three weeks since, and you had stayed true to your word. Work and school had picked up, giving you no spare time to bemoan how boring your routine was.

On the weekends, your house tended to get extra noisy, with parents and siblings incapable of leaving you alone. On these such occasions, you made use of the spare key bestowed upon you by Sicheng, making your way into his apartment and spreading yourself across his kitchen counter.

After several hours of blissful peace, Sicheng came through the doorway, greeting you without surprise.

Although he was nearly silent as he made his way around the tiny apartment, you still found him increasingly distracting. You watched him move from the bathroom to the bedroom to the entryway to the bathroom to the bedroom again, getting dressed in the typical black ensemble of a Sunday night.

You tapped your pen against the counter. “You going to that fight club thing tonight?” You queried.

He paused his getting-ready process, flicking his eyes over to you. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “I’m assuming you don’t really want to come?”

“I would,” you lied, “but I actually still have a lot of this assignment to do…”

He shot you a benevolent smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sicheng,” you grabbed his attention again, another question on the tip of your tongue, “how’s Jaehyun?”

This took your friend by surprise. “Jaehyun?” He echoed, “What do you have to do with Jaehyun?”

“I chatted with him for a while that night a couple of weeks ago. I know he won, but he still took some rough punches. I was just wondering.”

Sicheng went to answer, but was interrupted by the front door opening and two figures tumbling into the small apartment.

Taeyong came first, already in black skinny jeans and a worn jacket, smokey grey hair mussed atop his head.

But it was the second, taller figure that had your eyes focused intently on theirs. Jaehyun was exactly as you had seen him two weeks ago, the same dark grey hoodie shielding his torso, the same gold chain glinting against the pale skin of his collar bones, the same warm look in his eyes as his whole face transformed into a smile, directed at you.

“Y/N,” he greeted you brightly, disregarding the surprise and confusion on both Taeyong and Sicheng’s faces. He came to lean against the counter opposite from you, pushing the hood from his head to offer a more unobstructed view of his face. A cut was just about healed on his right eyebrow, but other than that he was still unmarred.

“Hi,” you answered belatedly, almost forgetting to converse amid your cheek-stretching grin.

“You live with Sicheng?” Jaehyun queried, the pair of you ignoring the hushed exchange between the other two boys behind him.

“No, I live with my family, but I come here to study and hang out a fair bit. To escape the noise.”

He picked up a couple of the stapled piles laid out in front of you, careful not to mess up any semblance of organisation you were pretending to have. He began asking you questions about your major, which diverted to a recap of whether you had read any of the books he’d recommended last time.

“Jaehyun,” Taeyong leapt in before the pair of you could go down yet another path of conversation, “we should get going.”

“Oh, he blinked, as if he had forgotten his purpose for the evening entirely, “Right, of course.”

“Are you fighting tonight?” You asked. It seemed awfully soon.

Jaehyun shook his head, “I’m just scouting an opponent this weekend, my fight’s next week.”

“Do you want to come?” Taeyong offered you, “You’re always welcome.”

Jaehyun stiffened before you, his eyes cast away to the floor, as if overcome by a sudden bought of uncomfortable shame and embarrassment. You could distinctly remember the clipped tone of his voice when he had expressed how much he detested the place, the sport, everything about it.

“No,” you declined slowly, eyes still watching Jaehyun. At the sound of your word, his shoulders lost their tension in what must have been relief. “I have a lot of work to do. Maybe next time.”

The party of three left, Jaehyun flashing you another of those dazzlingly gentle smiles before being shepherded out the door. Half an hour ago, you had no intention of ever returning to that club basement. But every time you came across Jaehyun you were drawn further and further into the paradoxical web of his personality, decidedly unable to wiggle yourself free.

—

The bass thrummed above your head like a ballroom full of elephants with four left feet, discordant and persistent. Your vows to never return to the club basement that housed the bare knuckle fight club have been dissolved when you’d gone up to Taeyong yesterday afternoon to ask him if Jaehyun was fighting.

“Mhm,” Taeyong had nodded distractedly, fingers frantically skittering across the screen of his phone.

“Isn’t that really soon?” You’d pried, “What if there’s something wrong with his knuckles that still needs to get better? Aren’t they important?”

Taeyong had lifted his dark eyes from the screen and fixed you with a silencing look. You’d come to know that he was gentle and kind, especially when it came to your best friend, but that didn’t change the fact he had a killer death stare when he wanted to make use of the sharp angles of his face.

“Jae has his reasons, and he’s the best there is. I’m not worried about it, neither is Jae, so you don’t need to worry either, ok?” He obviously didn’t have time to nanny your worries, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You’d told yourself you’d leave it all be and not get yourself unnecessarily involved, but apparently your subconscious had decided you were plenty involved already, and you found yourself tagging along with Sicheng and Taeyong once more.

Like last time, Taeyong had disappeared on arrival, and Sicheng had gone with him, shooting you a semi-apologetic smile as he did.

You hung around the back of the crowd, cringing as they ooh-ed and aah-ed during the ups and downs of a fight.

It didn’t take you long to spot a tall, hoodie-clad figure weaving their way in and out of the crowd. You intercepted him before you could tell your brain otherwise, coming face to face with a very surprised Jaehyun.

“Y/N?” he asked, a large, calloused, scarred hand grabbing your arm gently and tugging you further from the crowd, affording you slightly more quiet for a conversation. “What are you doing back here?”

“To ask you that same question,” you acknowledged, “isn’t it quite soon to be fighting again?”

Jaehyun shifted a bit uncomfortably, but did not move away from you or divert eye contact. “It’s been a month,” he said, but he seemed to know that wasn’t really a proper answer.

You picked up his right hand without giving the contact much thought, examining where he still had stitches in his knuckles. It was the hand that delivered those devastatingly powerful punches, it was not a surprise it did considerable damage to himself as well.

“This doesn’t look totally fine,” you noted, “although I guess it’s not really my business.”

“Yeah,” Jaehyun murmured noncommittally, although you couldn’t tell which part of what you said he was agreeing to.

“So why are you here?” You pressed, your concern surprising yourself.

Jaehyun frowned and curled in on himself that same way he had done in Sicheng’s apartment a week ago. “I need the money,” he murmured, finally dropping his gaze from yours as if it was a cardinal sin that he should be personally ashamed of.

“Jaehy—”

“I answered you,” he cut you off before you could offer anything, “now it’s your turn. Why are you here again? For real.”

Your brow creased slightly, “I told you; to see you.”

Visible surprise returned to his handsome features, even if they were slightly discoloured in places from residual bruising. “You were being serious? You’d come back to this hellhole just to see me?”

You couldn’t quite read the emotion on his face as he processed that information—whether it was because of the dark surroundings or just because he was purposefully difficult to read, you couldn’t discern.

Just as one of you was about to say something, the bell sounded once more, indicating the end of the fight. The referee’s voice filled the room above the jeering of the crowd.

“I have to go,” Jaehyun said, face a mixture of apology and still that something unrecognisable.

You nodded silently and watched him melt into the crowd, heading towards the ring.

As last time, you waited for Sicheng to come find you, telling you ‘just one more fight’ as he tugged you to the front line.

Jaehyun was in deep conversation with Taeyong, who looked more jittery than you’d ever seen him. That did little to settle you.

“What’s wrong?” You questioned Sicheng.

Sicheng stooped a little to talk into your ear, preventing the surrounding audience from hearing, “He’s fighting this new guy who’s just shipped in from the US. He’s in the same weight class, but only just. He’s tall and apparently more than a little good at this,” Sicheng explained.

The referee confirmed everything Sicheng had explained a moment later, informing you that the challenger was called Johnny Seo.

He was verifiably tall, though more leanly built than Jaehyun, with long brown hair pushed back by a headband. He walked with confidence that made you shiver, not knowing what it meant for Jaehyun, especially with that bad right knuckle.

The two young men stepped onto the mat. Taeyong was still Chief Second, with another, younger boy standing in Jaehyun’s other corner. Johnny’s seconds were hulking, intimidating things with arrogant smiles that drove home that uneasy feeling in your chest.

They stepped up to the line, Jaehyun’s face an impassive mask as it had been last time. The unenthused seriousness in his gaze made him almost unrecognisable from the boy from minutes before, who had been so flooded with emotion it was hard to differentiate one from the other.

The pair raised their fists in a defensive stance, and the bell sounded. Unlike last time, Jaehyun was precise and wary from the first moment.

You expected a few seconds of them dancing around each other before somebody connected the first hit, and you were proved wrong. Much to pretty much everyone’s surprise and dismay, Johnny wasted no time slamming a bare-knuckled fist into Jaehyun’s jaw, sending the shorter boy stumbling backwards.

He recovered quicker than the crowd did, dodging the next swing and watching the unorthodox opponent even more carefully than before.

Jaehyun weaved forwards and backwards, landing a solid jab in Johnny’s stomach, pushing the taller boy a few paces backwards as well. Where Jaehyun was stronger, Johnny was taller and unpredictable, even to Jaehyun’s experienced eyes. They were equally agile, hits being exchanged back and forth until both had split knuckles and lips and brows and red marks from bloodied fists on their exposed abdomens.

Jaehyun’s experience and home ground support seemed to be showing as he landed three consecutive punches to various parts of Johnny’s body, successfully dodging those aimed at himself. However, the effort seemed to take its toll, Jaehyun beginning to pull his punches with his right hand. Even your inexperienced eyes could see him favouring the right fist, which was bleeding profusely.

Taeyong was stony and stock still in the corner as he watched Jaehyun go on the defence as Johnny, having also noticed the change, came on the attack.

You were flinching and gasping every time Johnny flung a closed fist, your heart steadily climbing up your throat in apprehension. Jaehyun was managing to dodge, but a film of sweat had covered his body. This was not the effortless fight you’d seen a month ago, and from the crowd’s reaction this was not the Jaehyun they were accustomed to.

The mounting tension was sliced in a nano-second, the heart in your mouth plummeting back to the pit of your stomach. Johnny had used his height advantage to whirl a fist straight at Jaehyun’s temple, connecting with a sickening sound and sending Jaehyun falling backwards to the floor.

You expected him to scramble back to his feet, and if not, at least clamber back up slowly. Instead he lay there, eyes closed, a heaving chest the only sign of life still remaining.

The ref announced Johnny Seo the winner, but you could barely hear it over the sound of blood in your ears.

Sicheng prevented you from rushing forwards as Taeyong and the other second rapidly peeled Jaehyun from the mat, slinging an arm over each of their shoulders and dragging him off.

You followed Sicheng, who led you all back down the corridor and up the stairs to the street.

“We’ll have to carry him back to your apartment, Tae,” Sicheng decided, “we can’t catch a cab, and Jaehyun’s or mine is too far.”

Taeyong nodded in affirmation, mouth drawn in a tight line, eyes flickering back and forth as his mind worked a mile a minute,

“Shouldn’t we get him to the hospital?” You asked, trying to remove the tone of panicked anxiety from your voice.

“No,” Taeyong snapped, using his voice for the first time that evening, “what would we tell them? That he ended up like this because of all the illegal bare knuckle boxing he does? I don’t think so.”

You tried not to shrink back at his tone, choosing instead to scowl at him temporarily and not take it to heart.

“What’re you going to do about the state he’s in, then? Let him sleep and hope the fairies fix him?” You couldn’t keep the resentment from your voice, unfortunately.

Taeyong seemed to notice your offended expression, and therefore softened his. “No,” he explained, “we have a guy.”

You nodded, as if that made more sense, which it definitely didn’t.

—

The guy was a shorter young man, maybe a couple of years older than Taeyong, named Taeil. He was soft spoken as he worked, rarely using his voice except to ask Taeyong for an explanation, to ask for help or supplies or to voice little sounds of displeasure as he came across the battle wounds littered across Jaehyun’s pale skin.

You, Sicheng, Taeyong and the other second, an eighteen year old boy named Mark, had all sat around Taeyong’s bedroom as Taeil tended to the fallen soldier on the bed, but most of them had dispersed to the kitchen after all the cleaning up of blood and examining of bone structure was done.

Taeil had said someone had to watch him incase there were any complications or he woke up, and the others had all seemed gaunt and drawn and reluctant, and you could honestly say you didn’t mind staying in the slightest, so that was what you did.

And that meant that you were the only one there, in a dining chair brought in from the living room next to the modest double bed of the tiny apartment, when Jaehyun started to stir.

His eyes fluttered open, long lashes revealing dark brown irises and huge pupils. They contracted as the artificial light of the room hit them, but dilated again when they landed on you.

You had stood up, hovering over him with concern overtly clear on your countenance.

A soft smile slipped onto his face, which despite looking worse for wear, still managed to be heart-stoppingly handsome.

“Y/N?” He said, voice small. You nodded quickly, a hand coming up to remove the wet towel from his forehead, fingers brushing over the cool, smooth skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in your touch. “I feel really punch drunk.”

“Punch drunk?” You asked, your voice equally quiet. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of disturbing, but you were determined not to.

Jaehyun nodded imperceptibly. “Yeah, all groggy and a bit dizzy from copping one to many to the head.” He was silent for a moment, eyes slowly panning back to you. “For a split second, I though you were an angel.”

You scoffed slightly, a gentle smile gracing you face regardless, “How cliche.”

“I know, right?” He tried to chuckle, but his ribs protested. He paused a moment to let the pain subside, before speaking again, “What happened?”

You didn’t know how to break it to him, to tell him that some new guy had come in, worn him down and veritably knocked him out. That he wouldn’t get the money he risked his health and his life for because he so desperately needed it. No, Taeyong could do that dirty work.

Instead, you leaned over and pressed your lips gently to his forehead. It was a cowardly, selfish move, as he couldn’t do much in the means of protest in his state.

When you pulled away slightly, you found him staring intently, firstly at your eyes, then at your lips.

“What good are those lips doing up there?” He asked, something livelier returning to his still soft voice.

Warmth flooded your chest, but you restrained yourself, “You have a split lip.”

“I don’t really care,” he told you decisively, and reaching his left hand up with probably more exuberance than his own ribs or Taeil would advise, he wound his fingers through your hair and eased your face down to his.

You connected your lips, ignoring the taste of iron for the thrill of his tongue meeting yours and your lips moving together in a blissful cadence that did something tranquil to your soul, you were sure of it.

You edged yourself back when his cut lip protested even more, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and dabbing up the blood.

“You sure are a sight for sore eyes, Y/N,” Jaehyun told you, said sore eyes watching you affectionately as he wound the fingers of his left hand around those of yours that were not busy.

You weren’t sure what to say, hoping the blush tinting your cheeks said enough.

His thumb brushed against the smooth skin of your uncut, unmarred knuckles, a sigh escaping his lungs and filling the room with the torrent of sentiment he seemed to constantly harbour.

“Well,” he said, finality in his voice that spoke of something promising as he smiled purposefully at you, “at least I got something good from that god-forsaken ring.”

You lent down to press your forehead to his, closing your eyes and letting your noses brush against one another.

“Just checking you’re not burning up or anything,” you muttered lamely, keeping your foreheads touching, extremely reluctant to put any more distance between you.

Jaehyun chuckled but did nothing to protest, nudging your nose with his as he split his lip again with a grin, “Sure.”


End file.
